


Hair Shirt

by De_Nugis



Series: Hair Shirt 'verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-16
Updated: 2011-07-16
Packaged: 2017-10-21 11:20:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/De_Nugis/pseuds/De_Nugis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the road to redemption is paved with cat hair</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hair Shirt

**Author's Note:**

> Fluff! For ratherastory.

“Dude,” says Dean, “That hurts.”

Cas stares unblinkingly at Dean’s knee. The knee’s occupant stares unblinkingly back.

“That is Mirabel,” Cas informs Dean. Mirabel flexes her claws rhythmically into Dean’s leg, slicing effortlessly through denim. Dean tries to shift her sideways. She rubs her cheek against his hand, taking his feeble escape attempt for affection, and her purr goes up a notch. Dean’s not buying it. Only purr that gets to him is his baby’s engine. Still, he scratches a little behind her ears. No sense alienating her. She’s armed.

“I still don’t get why you’re doing this,” he says to Cas.

Cas turns his head stiffly, mindful of the heavy striped orange furball draped over his shoulder, taking in the apartment. It’s small and ugly. Not that the decor matters, since all the furniture and most of the floorspace is covered in cats.

“It is necessary,” says the angel. “It is what is required. You witnessed my actions. You know that I have a long road to walk if I am to return to what I was . . . before.”

Before his stint as an angry God drunk on monster souls, before the ritual Dean and Sam and Bobby had cobbled together out of spit and baling wire and desperation to get the souls out and get their friend back. And, yeah, Dean had kind of intended to beat the shit out of Cas when it was safely over, make him do some serious apologizing, but he hadn’t planned on Cas setting up as a hermit in New Jersey with seventeen cats.

“I’m just saying,” he says, “You don’t have to go the crazy cat lady route. You’d be welcome to ride with us. Sammy’s the friggin’ expert on roads to redemption paved with moping and brooding. You’d fit right in.”

Cas’s face softens. “Thank you, Dean,” he says. “I appreciate the offer. But your brother’s path isn’t mine. I think you have not fully understood the fitness of my situation here.”

“What,” says Dean, “The literal hair shirt?” Cas has finally given up wearing the trenchcoat indoors. He’s in a buttondown that may once have been white but is now layered with black and grey and ginger. “Or is it some penance by perforation deal?” he adds, as Mirabel settles herself more comfortably against his thigh, anchoring claws in flesh. “Ow.”

Cas smiles slightly, stroking the cat in his own lap, which looks like some kind of long-haired, snub-nosed Siamese.

“I thought myself a God,” he says, “Now I must break that habit of mind. I consulted several persons of great spiritual expertise. They all agreed that cats would prove efficacious for my progress. Cats do not permit their owners to make themselves Gods. They don’t tolerate competition.”

Dean looks from Cas’s face to the cat he’s petting. Cas looks besotted. The cat looks smug. There’s certainly no doubt which is the deity and which the humble worshipper.

“Yeah,” says Dean, “I guess I can see how that would work.” He stands up, dumping Mirabel to the floor. “Well, Sam and I are heading out in the morning. Zombie action in Florida. But we’ll drop by when we’re in town.”

Cas comes with him to the door.

“Give Sam my well-wishes,” he says. He hesitates for a moment. Sam is still a touchy subject. It’s not that Dean hasn’t forgiven Cas. He’s not holding a grudge for any of his own shit, anyway, but the rubble of the Wall is still there between him. “How is he, these days?” Cas asks.

“You know,” says Dean, “Good days and bad days.” Bad, mostly. He doesn’t mean his voice to sound accusing, but Cas’s eyes drop. Then he touches Dean’s shoulder, stopping him at the door.

“I believe I might be able to help him,” he says. “Wait here a moment.”

“Sam doesn’t want . . .” Dean starts, but Cas has vanished into the bedroom. Sam had been adamant: no memory wipes, no attempts to rebuild the Wall, though Cas had offered. And Dean gets it, he does. He’s had enough of bits and pieces of Sam to last a lifetime himself. If Sam wants to be whole and damaged rather than safely partitioned, then Sam gets to call the shots.

But Cas doesn’t return with some new memory charm or ritual. He’s carrying a cardboard box. One with holes in the top. Dean peers inside with a sense of deep foreboding. Round, cloudy blue eyes peer back at him. A small pink mouth opens in a plaintive mew.

“This is Oliver,” says Cas.

“But . . .” says Dean. They live in a car. They can’t have a kitten.

“You will manage,” Cas says. Damned mind-reader. “You and Sam deserve a home, Dean. And a cat. And Oliver enjoys travel. I chose the most adventurous of the litter.”

And it’s true, Dean has been thinking that they could use a home base for Sam’s bad times. And for Dean, too, to be honest. It’s gotten harder, since Lisa and Ben, to pretend that he doesn’t want things. Ridiculous things, like a porch and a kitchen and bookcases. And maybe a cat. He tucks the box carefully under his arm. Cas smiles.

“Sam will like him,” the angel says, and ushers Dean out the door. The box under Dean's arm begins to purr.  



End file.
